


Gymnophoria

by Davechicken



Series: The Pilot and his Knight [36]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: M/M, The Morning After The Night Before
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 14:43:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7688437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sensation that someone is mentally undressing you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gymnophoria

The day _after_ \- the day _after they did the thing._ You know. _It_. That thing that adolescence was supposed to be a mad dash for, one that had resolutely _run past him and left him standing, too-tall, too-old in its wake_ …

Maker, he can’t even think the word? **Sex.** Okay. If he thinks it enough it will seem normal. _Sex, sex, sex, sex, sex, sex–_ **shit no fuck damn crap kriff Yoda on a shoestring** he can’t think about sex in _public_.

Kylo wonders if anyone noticed. It’s not like he’s _obvious_ , sitting as he does in his habitual corner of the mess hall. The one that’s tucked back, a little behind the sad salad counter. The one with a quick getaway out the back route if it ever comes to it (and it never has, but part of him _needs to know it’s there_ , and has done since he came ‘home’), and a vantage point over everyone else in the room. The spots he can’t directly see he has a bit of a trick to: if he sits just _so_ then the metallic chiller side reflects and gives him a bit wider field of vision, and… he’s overthought this, hasn’t he?

Maybe.

Anyway, no one seems to have noticed that he thought about _it_. You know. S - e - x. Bumping uglies. Docking with the station. Blowing the exhaust vent. Shaking the gaffi stick. And probably they would think it’s normal because they’ve been doing it for years, but _Kylo did it last night_ and it was a big deal to him. Still is. His underwear chafes a little, and he wonders if people normally feel the fingerprints and lipmarks and… other things… the next day, or is he just being hypersensitive again?

_They did it. Together. At the same time. Kind of. Mostly._

And it was **great**.

Kylo fights a bubble of laughter and spears a wandering vegetable, then blushes because it’s kind of _phallic_ and he **did that thing last night with–**

A brush of something familiar against his mind, and Kylo looks up and meets - _play it cool play it cool play it -_ Poe’s eyes. Poe looks… smug. Yep. Smug. That’s the self-satisfied expression of a well-fed Bantha. He’s swaggering his hips as he walks, and maybe that’s just Kylo reading into it, but he’s **certain** Poe looks like a man who definitely _did the do_ last night. And by the ‘do’, he means ‘him’. 

Poe pauses just a moment in the doorway before he gets his tray, and Kylo feels the _u n i v e r s e     s     l         o        w           d          o           w           n._

Time becomes a non-entity, a moment caught like an oil bubble on a taut string, reflecting and refracting and spectruming the whole of existence in the round, full walls. The air is hot as caf-chafing steam, his tongue swollen and untamed. His hands clumsy on the cutlery, his heart raging like he’s just run here from Coruscant.

Poe. Poe’s eyes lid slightly, dip to the table (which conceals his sudden, treacherous boner), then rake up and up and up and over him, to his eyes. Kylo knows that Poe _knows_ what he looks like, underneath everything, and he can **feel** invisible fingers tugging at his collar, at the edge of his shirt. Can _feel_ the heat of it, the image of himself naked - _desirable -_ writ large all across Poe’s mind. His body no longer (at least, not to Poe) a thing of horror and shame, but something glorious and wanted.

Kylo jabs the fork into his thigh, trying to will his cock down. He’s not going to be able to escape except by the back entrance, and then _with a tray for armour_. 

When Poe comes over with his own food, Kylo’s apoplectic with lust, driven out of his mind by Poe’s wordless attentions.

“You okay, babe?”  


Kylo can only whimper his response. _No he fucking is not_.

Also: _no, he is not fucking_. That’s probably more important, right now. He grabs Poe’s wrist and drags him back to his quarters before the man has a chance to do anything remotely suggestive with the very pointed, shaft-like food he’s piled high on his plate.

Bastard.


End file.
